


Very Sad Tales for Small Children

by dotchan



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Dubious Consent, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 15:52:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15004241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotchan/pseuds/dotchan
Summary: Here's a story that you may want to take with a grain of salt.Written sometime in the past.





	Very Sad Tales for Small Children

Very Sad Stories for Small Children    
an unconventional tale by Dot    


* * *

  
Today, unlike the other days of what seemed to be endless killing, the hostilities ceased and both sides worked towards a common goal, though of course neither could quite resist the occasional taunt. The Snipers gathered tinder, the Heavies chopped the logs, and the Engineers argued about the best way to build the bonfire.    
  
By the end of the day everything managed to get done without too many barbs or fists flying, and the Demomen would give their best bottle a fond farewell kiss before smashing it over the contraption, then stepping back and letting the Pyros do the work.    
  
Dinner was a rushed, more or less quiet affair, everyone in an unspoken contest to finish eating as fast as they could so that the rounds of drinking could begin, though bottles were already being passed around as the slow eaters wolfed down the last few bites.    
  
“That was nice,” the new Scout had to admit, patting his bulging stomach. He was smart enough to not ask too many questions, as it would have taken a pretty thick-headed dolt to not notice the change of mood since the first rays of dawn, but now he could no longer hold back his curiosity. “So what is all this about, anyway?”    
  
“It’s a remembrance, for those who’ve passed on.” His team’s Sniper nodded in thanks at the enemy Spy who filled his tin cup with the almost toxic-smelling brew that was being passed around.    
  
The Scout blinked. “People actually like, die die here, even with respawn?”    
  
“It happens. Respawn doesn’t fix pre-existing conditions, after all.”    
  
That made sense, the Scout thought. The Demomen always seemed to be missing an eye behind one of those pirate patches, and the Scout doubted that they had half-blinded themselves for shits and giggles.    
  
The Medic rose, setting his mug down next to him. “I suppose we should begin, then. As I read the names, would those of you who fought alongside–or against–them please offer a word or two in their memory.”    
  
The Scout tuned most of the proceedings out. He didn’t know any of those people, after all, and it felt kind of weird sitting in a circle with the other team.    
  
_ Man, if I knew they were planning some gay bonfire storytelling session, I’d have found some way to skip it, come hell or high water, _ Scout thought, drawing his knees to his chest. Hope they’re not gonna be doing this all night.    
  
Three or four rounds in he was starting to feel sleeping from the boredom and the alcohol when the Medic signaled for silence and read the next name on his list. “Casey Johnson.”    
  
The Pyro, out of his mask for once though he would huff from it every so often, raised his glass. “To Casey. I wish I had the pleasure of meeting her.”    
  
“Hear here.” The hearty second came from his opposite number. “She was a crazy-ass bitch that gave us nightmares, but you couldn’t have ask for a better teammate.”    
  
The Scout sat straight up, and almost fell over as a wave of dizziness struck him. He wasn’t that much of a lightweight, was he? “Say what?” He managed, pinching himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. “We have girls in this Godforsaken shithole?”    
  
“Had,” the Sniper emphasized with a heavy sense of finality. “Our Pyro was the first, and in all likelihood last. I doubt the higher ups would let a second one through, not even one with the same set of circumstances.”    
  
“She was twice the warrior any of you maggots could dream of being,” the Soldier sobbed into his drink. The Soldier always got a little moody, to say the least, when he hit the bottle.    
  
The Spy made a derisive noise. “I seem to remember you being so upset about the idea that you could be shown up by a woman that you threatened to quit the team.” He leaned forward, adding in a stage whisper: “And then he had the nerve to cry the loudest at her funeral.”    
  
“I didn’t know at the time!” Now the Soldier was wailing, and the two Heavies seated next to him had to keep him from hitting himself with his shovel. “If I had any idea how much of a trooper she was, I’d never have–” And at this point he became incoherent.    
  
One of the Engineers spoke up at this point. “None of us knew, ‘cept the Doc. We just thought she was funny in the head. I mean, who in their right mind would run towards bullets?”    
  
The other Engineer shook his head. “Darn near gave me a heart attack the first time I saw her barrelin’ towards my setup – I had a Sentry, Dispenser, AND a Doc and she just kept rushing us until we gave up trying to build there.”    
  
The Scout boggled at the thought. As reckless as he was, he hated being respawned just as much as the next guy and tried to keep himself alive as much as possible. A Pyro that wouldn’t stop coming, no matter how many bullets he pumped into that flame retardant suit must have been quite the sight to behold.    
  
“Oh, God, remember the time we were, like, THIS close to capping the point and winning the round?” One of the other team’s Scouts took a deep swig, wiping the excess from his face. “Miss Crazypants charges through, sets us all on fire, and stays on the point just long enough to force overtime and then those bastards made a comeback while she was waiting to respawn!”    
  
“Hah, the Great Viaduct Weenie Roast,” the other team’s Sniper chuckled. “Good times, good times.”    
  
The Scout bristled. “She cooked your stupid bushman ass way more times than she’d ever managed to catch me, Mister Can’t Be Bothered To Check His Surroundings!”    
  
“Would not kill Sniper to not always be squinting into tiny viewfinder,” the Heavy agreed.    
  
“Says the guy who managed to burn to death even with the Lady Pyro shot to pieces,” the Sniper muttered.    
  
“Doctor was healing me!” The Heavy exclaimed.    
  
“Did you not notice me screaming to find a Dispenser or another Medic because I was also on fire?” The Medic scowled so hard the Scout swore the German’s glasses were glinting.    
  
“Who hasn’t that lass tried to light up?” The Demoman grumbled, looking like he had gone all the way around the bend of drunkenness and was staggering back towards a strange sort of sobriety. “Cost me my second best bottle of brew, she did, and all my sticky bombs to boot.”    
  
The allied Medic let out a long sigh. “She could have done so much more harm if she were willing to sit still and let me heal her, or even drop an Über. But she was always running headlong into danger.”    
  
The enemy Soldier chuckled. “Damn fool ran herself off control point in Nucleus once and pitched head over heels into the generator, right after your side won.”    
  
The Medic let out a dry laugh. “I remember that. She was so embarrassed afterward, because it was an honest mistake, but she tried to pretend like she meant to do it all along.”    
  
The Scout had heard enough. He mumbled an excuse about needing to empty his bladder and then just about tumbled his way down the hill, not stopping until he was certain he was too far away to be heard by the revelry. He did his business into the tall grass, but his member remained in his hand as a far more pressing need became known.    
  
A girl Pyro! He couldn’t believe he missed out on that! No doubt she was a smoking redhead under that suit, all sass and spitfire. He could almost see her pitching to him whenever the baseball bug struck, wicked underhand knuckleballs that sailed past him more often than not. Later, they would try the cigarettes she finagled out of the Spy somehow–everyone in the base wanted a piece of that fine, lithe ass except the Sniper, who was fruitier than his mom’s cantaloupe salad, but she was his and his alone–then agree to never do that again no matter how cool the Spy made it look.    
  
He would save up money from his allowance while he worked the nerve to ask her out, all official with flowers and everything. The Sniper would catch him scoping for makeout spots on the roof and offer his loft–for a reasonable fee, of course. He would end up scrounging the landscape and hope that she would not laugh at the handful of half-wilted dandelions he managed to find; she just chewed her lip and asked, her voice shy for the very first time, what took him so long.    
  
The loft would already be empty when they climb up, each finding their own way over as not to raise suspicions, though the Spy seemed to have caught on what they are planning to do because when he passed the Scout in the hall he gave the Scout a patronizing pat on the back and the Scout found a small square package in his hands.    
  
She would be the first to move, tackling him and pinning him somehow though she was smaller than him, and he was sure he almost wet himself. Then they'd kiss, colliding noses and teeth and giggling as they tried to meet lips again and again, getting a little better each time. He would grin at her and reach down to touch her panties and–    
  
A gloved hand clapped over the Scout’s mouth, muffling his scream as he felt the too cold blade of a switchblade press against his family jewels.    
  
“They sent me down here to make sure that you had not drowned yourself in the river by accident, but perhaps I should toss you in anyway.” The smooth voice of the Spy murmured against his ear. “Stop squirming. That is only the back end of the blade, but if you do not stand still I make no guarantees on your continued wellbeing.”    
  
Scout obeyed at once. “You could’ve at least waited for me to finish,” he couldn’t help grousing. Despite the danger he was still riding high on the fantasy, and the feeling of the Spy’s hand on his thigh did not help the nagging doubts about his sexual preferences. “Don’t tell me none of you guys thought about boning her, even if you didn’t actually try because she’d probably torch the lot of you for even thinking about it.”    
  
The Spy’s other hand grabbed one of the Scout’s and twisted them behind his back. “You are so fortunate that it was not the Medic who came down to look for you. He would have just vivisected you and fed your remains to the fishes.”    
  
“Why, was she his girlfriend or something?” Relief flooded the Scout as the blade was withdrawn, except then the Spy just about slammed him face first into the ground. He swore, curse words stringing together. “What was that for?” He demanded, trying to squirm free despite the pain shooting up his arm.    
  
The Spy’s attention was not focused on him. “I am taking him back to the base. You are free to tell the others whatever you wish.”    
  
“Then I will say that he was found passed out with his bare ass to the air,” the sound of another Spy cloaking could be heard, and then nothing.    
  
“Wait a minute–” Any objections on the Scout’s part died in his throat as the Spy’s hand moved between his legs and oh God what was he doing with his hands he wasn’t a fag he liked girls and rainbows did not make him cry, dammit, and–    
  
“There is no shame in enjoying this, Scout. I am an expert in pleasuring both women and men, after all.” The Spy was not giving him any room to do anything except buck against his hand–he hadn’t even bothered to take his gloves off, the smug bastard–his train of thought derailing into a million pieces as the silk-soft texture danced across his throbbing member. “And if you think I will allow you to pretend that it is your darling imaginary Pyro doing this, then you are very naive indeed.”    
  
What the fuck is your problem? The Scout wanted to ask, but all the sounds he could make with his mouth were these dirty sounding moans.    
  
The Spy must have read his mind or something, because he leered at him. “Because you are an idiot. You know nothing of our former teammate–you did not even know she existed before tonight, and yet you decide to indulge in some immature teenage fantasy because the mere idea of a girl being anywhere around you is enough to make you want to masturbate–” The Scout whimpered as the Spy grabbed him and began to pump, and the Spy smirked wider when he saw that the Scout found even the rough action to be stimulating. “But because I am merciful, I will allow you your little vice, and then I will show you why we still hold Mademoiselle Johnson in such high esteem.”    
  
Scout remembered being grateful that there was no one else around to hear him, because fireworks were going off in his brain (and elsewhere) and he was sure he hollered something so foul his mother would have made him eat soap for weeks if she knew. The rest of the night was a little foggy, and try as he might he could not recall what happened after the Spy gave him a handjob.    
  
***    
  
The Spy lived in one of the darker corners of the base, his odd hours meaning that he was not a fan of sunlight lancing through his boarded window. Nevertheless, the shift from morning to midday was enough a change in light level to rouse Scout out of his alcohol-, (sort of) sex-, and Ambassador-to-the-temple-induced sleep.    
  
“Ugh, what the fuck, man,” the Scout groaned, his subconscious already aware that he was not in his own room but his mind slow to catch up.    
  
The Spy forced him to remain lying down with a single finger to the lump on his head. “A promise was a promise, was it not? Now, stay still while I tell you a story of a Pyro who had a secret she almost took to the grave, except our silly Medic had to go all sentimental.”    
  
“This better not take long,” Scout mumbled, draping an arm over his eyes. “I’m missing breakfast.”    
  
“You will not starve.” The Spy’s otherwise amicable expression darkened for a moment. “Try anything funny and I will tie you to the bedpost.”    
  
“I’ll be good.”    
  
“AS you had heard last night, none of us knew what to make of such a suicidal teammate. She–of course at the time save for the Medic we did not know her identity, though I suppose we all had our doubts from time to time–scared us just as much as the enemy, perhaps even more so because we had to live with her. But between missions she kept to herself and as we worked together we realized that she was contributing just as much as the rest of us, if not more.”    
  
“How?” The Scout asked as the Spy paused to take a drag from his cigarette, wrinkling his nose at the smell. “What good was she if she was just getting shot at all the time?”    
  
“Precisely for that reason. It did not take long for the enemy to focus all their attention–and ammunition–on the Pyro, who could always be counted on to be first to charge. Every bullet, rocket, and bomb being fired at her was one not being directed at the rest of us. And since she wielded an incendiary device, her attacks left persistent damage that meant it easier for us to do our jobs.”    
  
The Scout scowled. “Smaller words, dude. Dropped out of high school, remember?”    
  
“She uses a flamethrower.” The Spy elaborated, pronouncing his words with deliberate slowness. “Unless you put out the fire the flames will keep on burning.”    
  
“Oh.”    
  
The Spy's contempt of the Scout was all the more plain now. “You already heard some of her exploits last night, but allow me to elaborate some more. It became quite obvious to all of us that she was an invaluable asset in clearing crowds or disabling enemy buildings even if more often than not she had gone through at least three lives to accomplish what most of us could do in one. And over time she got craftier about her rushes, circling around to surprise the enemy in directions they did not expect her to appear. She even developed a good eye for enemy Spies, catching quite a few of them while cloaked or disguised.” Spy exhaled a cloud of smoke in the Scouts general direction, amused at the boy’s panicked flailing reaction to the toxic substance. “Outside of the battlefield she might as well didn’t exist, but it wasn’t long before all of us acknowledged her as a valuable teammate, if nothing else.”    
  
“So how did you find out that the Pyro was a–” Scout bit his lip, as if he was about to say ‘chick’ as he did the night before, “lady?”    
  
The Spy nodded, as if to acknowledge this bit of tact on the Scout's part. “It happened on a day much like this one, but back then there were only nine of us, one of each class…”    
  
***    
  
The classes sat in the briefing room, wondering what the latest meeting was about this time. The Medic, and not the Soldier, had requested that they all gather there, an announcement of great importance, and he looked so solemn and imposing, even more than usual, that they dared not disobey or, for that matter, give any lip.    
  
The murmuring stopped as the Medic gave a cursory nod to the Soldier and rose, tapping on the microphone to check if it worked. “Thank you all for coming. It is my firm belief that the time for silence has passed. It would be a greater tragedy to leave the truth unspoken than to break my oath as a doctor.” He took a deep, shuddering breath.    
  
The men below eyed each other. They were wary of the Medic and his secrets; who knew what sort of atrocities the German was capable of, even if he did look a sliver too young to have served the Third Reich in any capacity.    
  
The Medic collected himself and continued. “Whatever other words on my end are superfluous; I shall give you the facts.” He cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and began to read from the stack of papers he brought with him. “Casey Johnson. Class: Pyro. Age: 30. Gender,” he paused just long enough to get the undivided attention of the whole room, “Female.”    
  
The room erupted into chaos, but soon settled into four camps. The Scout and the Spy looked smug, as if they suspected that it was the case all along; the Engineer looked shocked, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water; the Soldier and the Demoman were incoherent with rage, somehow offended at the idea that one of their teammates were female; the Sniper and the Heavy were indifferent, both of them having been professionals long enough to stop caring about who did the job as long as it got done well.    
  
“Settle down, all of you.” The Medic did not raise his voice; he did not need to. As one the team turned to face him again. “Whatever you opinion on whether or not it is appropriate to have a female here among us, that is not the crux of the matter. I would have gladly protected Miss Johnson’s identity to her death if her situation were not so dire. As of this morning there is nothing more that I can do for her–”    
  
“What’s wrong with her?” The Scout dared to interrupt. “She sick or something? She’d better not make us sick, either–”    
  
The Medic silenced the line of questions with a single, venomous glare. “Her condition is not contagious; as a matter of fact, I have been isolating her from the rest of you so that you do not exacerbate the matter. Still, as she has made such a considerable turn for the worst I suppose I would not object to you visiting her one at a time.”    
  
“So we’ve got a woman on the team–she wasn’t too bad for a woman, I’ll grant you that, but now she can’t even fight any more,” the Soldier grumbled. “Why are we even discussing this?”    
  
All present could see the vein popping from the Medic’s forehead. “Indulge me for one moment, Soldier. Imagine that you have a terminal illness. Some days you can get by with the terrible medicines you must take to stay on your feet, others it hurts to so much as breathe.” He spoke with slow deliberation, the strain of keeping his words in English plain to his audience. “But you never utter a syllable of complaint, not even to your physician, and though he warns you that the treatment may be worse than the disease you accept it. Better than being laid up like an invalid, you say.”   
  
The Medic paused for breath. If a pin had dropped anywhere in the base, the men present could have heard it. “The respawn gives temporary reprieve, but even if you are not killed in some horrible fashion your body gives out on you in moments. The chemicals make the remainder of your hair fall out, but you just say that it was getting in the way of your mask. You cannot eat anything more substantial than the thinnest of soups, so you must sit and endure hours of painful nutrient drips while your body wastes away beneath you until you are nothing more than skin and bones. Worst of all, the illness keeps spreading, invading more and more of your body until surgery is imperative. Even then, even with the most intimate parts of you gone, the disease rages on, invading all of the organs. Short of a miracle, you will die, slowly, in great agony.”    
  
The Medic wiped the tears that had dropped onto his glasses and collected himself. “If you still have any objections, the door is right there. Nobody will stop you from leaving. On the other hand, if you would like to make your appointments to give Miss Johnson the dignity of not dying alone, I will be in my office.”    
  
***    
  
Scout felt like scum. No, worse than scum. He deserved far worse than the (no not thinking about how sexy it was lalala) molestation he got last night. “Dude. I had no idea. I’m so, so sorry, man.”    
  
The Spy muttered something in French, and the Scout was sure it was an insult. Then he smiled his canary-eating grin again. “No harm done. Now that you know the whole story, you are free to imagine as many beautiful female Pyros as you wish without soiling the memory of a beloved comrade, and I will not have to turn you into a gelding for it!”    
  
Like I would ever be able to fantasize about that again, Scout thought. His stomach gurgled, reminding him that he had yet to eat. “Can I go now? I’m really hungry.”    
  
“Of course.” The Spy waved him off, and the Scout dashed out of the room as fast as his legs could carry him. He would spend the rest of the day distracted by the memories his now alcohol-free brain were offering him, and wonder once again whether or not he played for both teams, but that would be a story for another day.    
  
***    
  
If you wish to end the story here on a warm note, dear reader, I suggest you stop reading now. It stands alone as a beautiful, heartbreaking tale without the additional information I am about to divulge to you.    
  
I am quite serious.    
  
Stop reading now.    
  
You sure you want to keep going?    
  
Very well, you have been warned.    
  
***    
  
The Spy pressed the “transmit” button on his microphone: “He bought it. Hook, line, and sinker. What’s more, I believe he is also beginning to question his sexuality.”    
  
“WOO! That’s our master of bullshit for you!”    
  
The sounds of high-fives being exchanged could be heard. “And the undisputed expert of the badtouch, turning rookies gay since 1968!”    
  
“Now all we need is for Sniper to drive up in his Rape Van and it’ll be a done deal!”    
  
A growl came from the Sniper in question, without a doubt blushing to the roots of his hair by now. “Stop insinuating that I’m some sort of perverted boy lover! And it’s not a Rape Van, it’s a camper!”    
  
“Still fucking creepy,” the drunken singsong of the Demoman chimed in. “Ooh, I’ve got a brilliant idea! ‘Sniper’s Rape Van’: Great band name, or greatest band name?”    
  
“Good one, Demoman!” The Heavy laughed as the Sniper sputtered and shouted obscenities over the comm.    
  
Even the Soldier got in on the teasing. “Sniper’s Rape Van! No candy, just rape!”    
  
The other Spy materialized in the room, extending his lighter to his colleagues’ cigarette. “How long before the cat comes out of the bag?”    
  
Ah, sweet, sweet nicotine. “I’d say a month at the longest. That boy may look clueless, but he didn’t get this far in life without some brain in that empty head of his.”    
  
“I’d say it takes at least a year before he gets even the slightest inkling.”    
  
The Spy raised an eyebrow. “The usual wager, then?”    
  
“Of course.”    
—-    
_ Unnecessarily Long and Tiresome Authoress’ Notes:  _   
Um. It was supposed to be the Super Tragic Tale of the Littlest Cancer Patient, not Spy’s Super Happy Fun Badtouch and Story Power Hour.    
Serves me right for using the “Sex on Legs” version of the Spy, I guess.


End file.
